The Head of a Pin
by TheShunnedPrince
Summary: "Jack's eyes darted around the area. There were several ways he could worm his way out of this. The men had closed ranks, forming a ring around him, but there were gaps he could easily slip through. But Jack had never been able to walk away from a fight, no matter how hopeless the situation. Not until he proved himself." Or the one where Jack can't stop getting into bar fights.


_"_ _...You did it in a bar fight, just like every year in uni. Freshmen year, broken nose, bar fight. Sophomore year, broken jaw, bar fight…"_

 _-_ Agent Carter episode 2x08

 **October 1938**

Jack had never been drunk enough to randomly break into song, but apparently there really _was_ a first time for everything.

The pub was small, cramped, and nearly empty save for a few men seated in the corner. God only knew where the hell Mark found these places in the heart of London. Not that it mattered. The only thing important to Jack was that he finally found an English bar that served a decent bourbon.

Not that he hated England. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was only his first year at Cornell, but the cloud choked skies and contaminated city air felt just like New York. Not to mention that here, all the way across the world, Jack was finally free. He was away from the disappointed gaze of his father, and the hungry stares of the other men who frequented the Thompson residence.

And now he was here with Mark, both of them pleasantly drunk and _singing_. Jack knew he was slurring the words, but they came pouring out of his mouth anyway. He couldn't remember what exactly they were supposed to be saying, maybe it was the school song? But it didn't really matter because the world was humming happily, and the all the lights were blurred as Jack and Mark stumbled up to the counter. Mark ordered something for the both of them, and Jack inhaled it before even asking what exactly it was.

"Hey," Mark mumbled, his hand groping around blindly before finding Jack's shoulder.

"What?" Jack asked, raising his voice above the buzzing filling his ears.

"I bet I can take a better shot than you," Mark said, gesturing to the pool table in the corner.

Jack frowned before pointedly saying, "No you can't."

Instead of answering, Mark grabbed Jack's coat sleeve and dragged him to the table, shoving the stick in his hands. "You first," Mark said.

Smiling confidently, Jack grabbed the stick and leaned over the table. He closed one eye, setting it up with a bright red ball. He lined up the shot, and got ready to take it. But strangely, it never happened. The world tilted, and then Jack was lying face down, his cheek squished onto the table. He could hear Mark howling with laughter, which for some reason triggered something inside Jack, and then they were both on the floor, dissolving into a fit of giggling.

They laughter subsided as suddenly as it had started, and then they were both left staring at the floor, short of breath.

"We should get out of here," Jack said, resting his head on his arms. The previously welcomed buzzing had turned into a pounding and his head felt like it was going to explode.

"Yeah," Mark agreed, somehow managing to pull himself to his feet without falling. He offered a hand to Jack, who took it gratefully.

The room swam, and Jack could feel all the drinks he'd had dance around in his stomach. He almost threw up in the middle of the room, but then Mark was singing again and Jack _had_ to join in because unlike Mark, he could at least sing on key.

They were both singing as they made their way toward the door. The bartender gave them a look, but in his current state Jack couldn't decipher what the man was trying to convey. They were almost to the exit when their way was blocked by a large man. He must have been working at the bar, because he had a nametag that said "Richard". Jack immediately placed him as one of the people who had been sulking in the corner of the room.

"Can you two shut it?" Richard asked, his face stormy. Jack felt Mark go still next to him.

"We were just leaving," Mark muttered.

"Then leave," Richard boomed. Jack gazed up at him and instantly hated him. He was obviously a man who thought he could control everyone with the wave of his hand. He was used to holding the power in a room full of people. He was just like Jack's father.

"Come on, Jack," Mark muttered, grabbing Jack's arm. Jack let himself be led out the door, but halfway there, he spun around and began singing again. He actually had to work to make his voice scratchy and out of tune, causing him to briefly consider a career as a singer. He could hardly keep a straight face as Mark gazed at him with awestruck horror, and Richard glared.

"Shut up," the man snarled.

Jack clawed Mark's hand off of his sleeve and walked up to the man, getting in his face. "Make me, Dick," Jack growled.

Looking back on this, Jack should have seen it coming. But he was drunk and cocky, a dangerous combination that would continue to get the best of him. Before Jack's mind could process what was happening, the man was curling his hand into a fist and slamming it into Jack's face. There was the familiar thud of skin hitting skin and then there was pain blooming in the form of stars dancing in front of his eyes. He felt an avalanche of something warm and wet roll down his face. When he brushed his finger across his cheek, it came away coated in red.

"Jack, get up."

Someone was calling his name. He opened his eyes, which he didn't even remember closing, and saw the blurry figure of Mark reaching down and hauling him up from under his arms. Once Jack was upright, Mark grabbed his coat and broke into a run, pulling Jack past a fuming Richard and into the frigid night air. They sprinted out of there, stumbling and tripping over cobblestones. They had made it into an abandoned alley before Jack realized that nobody was chasing them.

"Mark, stop," he said, grabbing the back of his friend's jacket. Mark froze and turned around, his face red.

"Oh my god, what did you do, Jackie?" Mark asked.

"I don't know," Jack said, gingerly prodding his nose. "I think he broke my nose."

There was a moment of silence where they simply stared at each other. And then Jack was laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes while Mark gazed at him worriedly.

"Jack, are you okay?" Mark asked, taking a tentative step forward.

"He broke my goddamned nose," Jack said again, wheezing with laughter. He didn't know why this was apparently hilarious, only that his nose had gone completely numb. Maybe his nose would be crooked forever after this. Hopefully, that would stop his father from making comments like "your looks is all you've got goin' for you, son".

"C'mon, Mark, it's funny," Jack insisted, grinning up at his friend.

"Sure it is."

And then they were walking back to the dorms, Mark rambling on about how apparently there was another war coming, and Jack growing considerably more snappish as his nose began throbbing with pain. They made it back to their room where they both collapsed onto their beds.

After an hour or so of tossing and turning, he found that he was unable to breathe through his nose. He flailed wildly as he scrambled out of bed, hitting his head on the top of the bunk. Sighing, Jack made his way to the nurse's office, trying to take deep breaths through his mouth.

Walking across campus, Jack stared at the ground, thinking of Mark's previous warning. Apparently, there was another war coming. And Jack Thompson wanted to be a hero.

 **January 1942**

He had kissed boys before but never like _this_. There had been James Smith in the eighth grade, and then William Adams senior year. But neither of them were anything like Tom.

It was barely a month since Jack had graduated, but war fever had broken in America after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Jack fully intended to return home to serve. As a result, Mark had dragged him off to a bar to celebrate one last night together. But Jack couldn't help but feel like there was some invisible barrier separating the two of them.

Mark had been selected to join the MI5 and work safely behind a desk while Jack would be on the front lines, risking his life. He knew it wasn't fair to his friend, but as soon as they entered the room, Jack had shoved Mark into a loud crowd of showgirls and watched as he disappeared. Jack had been planning on spending the rest of the night staring down the bottom of a bottle, but then Jack saw _him._

Maybe Jack had had too much to drink, but he could swear that Tom was _glowing_. They made eye contact and Jack found himself drowning in the warm brown of Tom's eyes. And somehow, they were now both in the dark alley behind the building, canoodling behind a dumpster.

He had never kissed anyone like this. There was a sense of urgency in the way Jack pushed Tom up against the wall, almost like they were caught in some kind of unspoken competition. Their mouths were glued together, tongues interlocked in a violent battle.

"Do you do this often?" Tom asked, pushing away from Jack. Jack felt the cold air seep into his coat in the place where Tom had been.

"Of course not," Jack growled. He wanted to be disgusted with himself, but all negative thoughts fled his mind when he caught sight of Tom's terrified expression.

"I don't either," Tom admitted. Jack vaguely noticed that they were both shaking but he couldn't tell if it was from the cold, or fear that they would be caught.

"Good," Jack said finally, and then they were kissing again, their hands roaming over each other's bodies. At some point, they had switched positions. Jack winced as Tom slammed him against the side of the building, the cool brick digging into his back. A blast of cold air hit Jack, and he pulled Tom closer to keep the heat trapped between themselves.

"What the fuck d'you think you faggots are doing?" a gruff voice called over the wind.

Jack shoved Tom away hard enough that he stumbled and fell against the dumpster. Swallowing the growing panic rising in his throat, Jack saw a group of large men who had most probably gathered in the alley to have a smoke. Now they were all staring at Jack and Tom with matching horrified expressions. Jack stared at them, taking a moment to assess the situation before turning on Tom.

"Yeah, Tom, what the fuck are you doing?" Jack asked. He refused to let the betrayal and fear in Tom's eyes affect him. "Get away from me," Jack growled, though from the surprised mutterings of the men, it was clear his ruse wasn't good enough.

When Tom still continued to stare transfixed at him, Jack grabbed Tom's arm and roughly pulled him to his feet. "I _said_ , get away from me, freak." But Tom just stood, staring up at Jack like a kicked puppy. So Jack grabbed the back of Tom's neck and steered him toward the exit of the alley. " _Run,_ " Jack whispered, gently brushing away a stray hair that had fallen into Tom's eyes. And finally, Tom seemed to understand. He flashed Jack a look filled with shame and apology, and then took off running into the night, leaving Jack with a furious group of homophobes.

"Good thing we got rid of him, right?" Jack asked. He smiled confidently even though the motion felt like it was tearing his face in half. "Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have a nice glass of bourbon waiting for me back inside."

It was a pathetic attempt to gain control of the situation, and then men knew it. The leader of the group happened to be the tallest, and he stepped forward, blocking Jack's way.

"You're not going anywhere, fag," he snarled. Jack's eyes darted around the area. There were several ways he could worm his way out of this. The men had closed ranks, forming a ring around him, but there were gaps he could easily slip through. But Jack had never been able to walk away from a fight, no matter how hopeless the situation. Not until he proved himself.

"I'm not queer," he said smoothly. Technically, he reasoned, that was the truth. He'd always liked women just fine. His attraction to men was just a...phase.

"Could have fooled me," the man said. His voice was deep and it sounded like the ground was rumbling. "Let's teach him a lesson, boys."

Jack blocked the man's first punch. He had taken up boxing in Cornell, so he knew how to defend himself. But out here, he didn't just have one opponent, he had three. And they were outside the safe walls of the ring where no rules applied. It simply was not a fair fight.

Two of the men pinned Jack to the wall. He struggled against them, getting in a few good hits before the third guy took a swing. The man's fist slammed into Jack's face, causing his head to snap back and ears to ring.

He groaned and shut his eyes to block out the tiny blinking lights that clouded his vision. When he opened them, he realized he had slid down the wall and was now sitting in the filth covered floor. He also noticed that the alley was now empty except for the familiar person leaning over him.

"Why," Mark said, "do you have to turn everything into a fistfight?"

"It wasn't my fault," Jack said automatically, accepting Mark's helping hand. As soon as he was standing, his vision swam, and the left side of his face pulsed in pain. There was something warm and thick in his mouth so he spit onto the sidewalk. Despite the darkness, Jack could easily tell it was blood.

Mark whistled. "I hope the Americans teach you how to properly defend yourself. Otherwise you're as good as dead, Jackie."

The words held an extra weight of genuine concern, but Jack was too distracted to notice. "Let's get out of here," he said, rubbing his jaw.

"What were you doing back here anyway?" Mark asked.

Jack froze for a moment before beginning to shuffle slowly toward the exit. "I think he broke my jaw," Jack said.

"Don't be absurd, you're fine."

It turns out, he actually _wasn't_ fine and his jaw was indeed broken. He arrived in New York two days later, his pockets stuffed with painkillers. Thankfully, they deemed him acceptable for active duty and he was to begin his military training in a week. He knew it was pathetic, but Jack couldn't help but count the down the days until he could serve.

Because that meant that the next time someone came for him, he would be better. No, he would be the _best_.

 **December 1945**

Jack stared at the amber liquid swimming around in his glass, wishing he could drown in it. The small bar he had chosen was glowing with soft yellow light and ringing with the sounds of celebration. A live band played music in the corner and couples were dancing on the small dancefloor. Jack wanted nothing more than to just sink into the floor and disappear. He knew going out tonight had been a lousy decision on his part but he couldn't stand one more night of drinking alone. One more night of his father pounding on the bedroom door, telling him how he was a "war hero" or one of the "lucky ones" who had no right to "throw the rest of his damn life away".

Sighing, Jack brushed his hand over his chest, fingering the pendant that lay beneath his shirt. The Navy Cross. _His_ Navy Cross. It hung around his neck like a hangman's noose, yet Jack couldn't bring himself to tighten it. He also couldn't bear to leave it with his father, who had wanted to put it on display.

His father.

At the ceremony, Jack had been ready to bolt, or to fall to his knees and confess everything. But then he had seen his father's face. It was proud. Proud of the man Jack had become. So Jack had swallowed his guilt and stood rigid while his superiors praised him for killing six innocent soldiers.

"Keep 'em coming," Jack told the bartender.

"No offense mister, but you already look hungover," the bartender remarked.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Jack growled. The man frowned at him, but poured him another glass, which Jack instantly downed.

An hour later, Jack had lost count on how many drinks he'd had. His head was pounding, mercifully blocking out the rest of the world. He embraced the lack of pain, almost happy to use alcohol as an excuse for the growing numbness. He felt like he should be crying, or have some sort of mental breakdown. But ever since Okinawa, it was like his emotions had been swept under a rug, and he was now standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking a swirling abyss. He felt like he should jump and lose himself to the darkness. He knew he deserved it. But some twisted part of him desperately clung to the hope that after everything he had done, he was still a good man.

Making his way toward the restroom, Jack came face to face with an obnoxiously bright poster of Captain America. Now _that_ was what a hero looked like. Dressed in red, white, and blue with a smile plastered to his face. Once upon a time Jack believed he could have been just like that. But the only person he had been fooling was himself.

"Fuck you," he muttered at the poster. Captain America didn't respond, which irritated Jack even more. "Stop _staring_ at me." He felt something ugly rise up inside of him, and then he was curling his hand into a fist and slamming it into Captain America's perfect face. The poster tore in half, ripping right through the silver star on Captain America's chest. Jack's hand stung and when he glanced down he saw that he had split his knuckle and blood was slowly dripping down his fingers.

Breathing hard, he stumbled into the bathroom and ran his hand under cold water. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw that he actually _did_ look hungover. Sighing, he left the restroom fully intending to order another drink but was distracted by a loud group of men hovering around a table. He leaned over their shoulders and saw a pool of cash in the middle of the chaos. The men were all holding cards and occasionally yelling loudly.

Against his better judgement, Jack joined them. One of the men thrust a deck of cards into his hands and he began to deal them out. He had absolutely no idea what they were playing. It might have been poker, blackjack, or go-fish for all he cared. All he knew was that there was a sudden burst of shouting as Jack pulled the pile of money into his arms.

"Sorry boys, but I won this round" he said simply and continued to pocket the cash. He set his glass down on the table and stood up to leave, only to grabbed by the arms. The room spun and he might have laughed out loud. "What the hell is this?"

"Give us our money back," growled one of the men. Jack thought his name was Danny but couldn't be sure.

"I would, but seeing as it's actually _my_ money now, I think _I'll_ decide what to do with it." He made to shrug off the hands holding him down but Danny's grip was like steel. In a flash, they had dragged him outside behind the building. Snow danced in the air and Jack found himself transfixed with the freezing flakes. He remembered the first time on the battlefield after a bombing. The ashes had rained down, deceptively white and gentle. They had burned his skin.

Danny landed the first blow to Jack's stomach. It knocked the wind out of him and he fell to the ground, gasping for air. The other men wasted no time in joining in on the fun. They were all on top of him, kicking, punching, clawing.

Jack could fight back. After all, none of these men seemed to have any experience in causing bodily harm while Jack was trained for situations exactly like these. But the pain was glorious. He had spent the last two months wishing he could _feel_ something besides the crushing realization that he was a cowardly, disgusting man. Of course, the guilt had been there. Jack had a feeling it would always be with him, coursing through his veins and tainting the air around him. But he wanted to _hurt_. He needed to be punished, and if that meant letting four men beat him senseless, Jack was more than happy to lay down and let them abuse him.

He shut his eyes, resisting the urge to throw his hands in front of his face and defend himself. After all, the soldiers he had killed in Japan had been defenseless.

At some point, two of the men had yanked Jack to his feet and were pinning him against the wall while Danny fiddled with the buttons of Jack's shirt. Jack was vaguely aware that this was going way too far and he tugged uselessly at Danny's pudgy hand. But his body ached all over, and whenever he blinked it felt like fireworks were going off inside his skull.

"Danny, stop," he slurred, swallowing down panic as Danny pulled open the first two buttons. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could block out the laughter of the men surrounding him. He braced himself for the worst, but it never came.

He opened his eyes to a ringing silence. All the men, including Danny, had stepped several feet away from Jack and were now gaping at him like confused fish. They weren't quite looking him in the eye, though. Following their gazes, Jack realized what they were staring at. His Navy Cross.

"You hit a war hero, Dan," one of the men said. Danny twitched uncomfortably, glaring at the pendant that hung around Jack's neck.

"You'd think he'd know how to fight back," Danny remarked, studying Jack carefully.

Jack had to grab onto the wall to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. His face felt heavy and swollen, and the shallowness of his breathing screamed bruised ribs. But somehow he mustered up the courage to say, "Get the hell away from me."

There was a moment in which they were all frozen in time. And then there was a loud crash from inside the bar and with one last look at Jack, Danny lead his small group back inside.

Finally free of the scrutiny, Jack groaned and slid down the wall. As far as he could tell, he wasn't bleeding anywhere, though there was definitely something wrong with his ribs and his blurry vision made him suspect there was also a minor concussion somewhere in the mix of bruises. He absently fingered the Navy Cross hanging around his neck. Ironic that the very thing that was killing him would end up his savior.

He had the insane urge to rip it off and throw it down the gutter where it would be lost forever. But for some reason he felt that by doing so, he would be losing a part of himself that he wasn't quite ready to let go of. The part that felt he had earned this cross. The "war hero" that he wanted so badly to be. He thought back to years ago when he had told Tom to save himself. He _had_ been noble once. He needed to believe he was still able to do the right thing, even if it meant living a lie.

"Need a hand, son?"

His head spun from how quickly he looked up. Standing above him with not a hair out of place and a smug smile was none other than Vernon Masters.

"Vernon?" Jack asked, struggling to his feet.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, Jackie?" Vernon asked, chuckling.

Jack resisted the urge to tell Vernon to fuck off and leave him alone. Ever since Jack's father had introduced Vernon, the man had always given him the creeps. The fact that he had popped out of nowhere did nothing to calm Jack's nerves.

"How'd you find me?"

"Your father thought you would be here. He wanted you back in the house and I volunteered to get you," Vernon said, looking immensely proud.

Jack almost asked Vernon if he wanted a medal for completing that task but refrained at the last minute. He remembered his father telling him about Vernon Masters. "Be good to uncle Vernon, Jack. He can do all sorts of things for you".

"Why?" Jack asked.

"You've been looking for a job, haven't you?"

 _Looking_ was kind of a stretch. In reality, Jack's father had simply barged into his bedroom in the mansion, thrown several papers onto Jack's bed, and announced that he needed to find something other than alcohol to occupy him. The stack of papers were still sitting on Jack's cluttered desk. It was then that Jack realized he really needed to move out and get a place of his own.

"Yeah?"

"Honestly, I'm surprised it's taken you this long to find one. There's no shortage of offers for a war hero."

Fighting the urge to visibly flinch, Jack said, "Thanks Vernon, but I'm not interested in joining the F.B.I."

To Jack's surprise, Vernon chuckled. "Not the F.B.I. I was thinking of the SSR."

"The _what_?"

"Strategic Scientific Reserve. I have a feeling you'll fit right in, Jackie."

Jack frowned, considering the offer. He was suspicious in receiving help from Vernon Masters of all people, and he definitely did not want to be indebted to anyone. But what choice did he have?

"Sure," Jack said, shrugging and then wincing when the movement sparked pain across his chest.

"Good man," Vernon said, patting Jack on the back. The motion jostled his ribs, but Jack just gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.

"So when do I start?"

Vernon chuckled and said, "You're determined. I like that. You have lots of potential, Jack. Tell you what, you promise to do exceptional work and not only will I have a high ranking position secured for you by the end of the week, I'll also make sure you make it to the top. Do we have a deal, son?"

Vernon stuck out his hand and Jack found himself hesitating. He knew nothing came without a price and Vernon was obviously dumbing down the amount of debt Jack would have to pay him. But the phrase " _exceptional work"_ grabbed onto Jack like a fish hook and was slowly dragging him back to the surface. Right now, more than anything, he needed to feel "exceptional". He needed to leave behind a legacy that wasn't stained with the blood of innocent people. Slowly, he grabbed on to Vernon's hand like it was a lifeline and they shook.

"Good man," Vernon said again. "I trust you can find your way home?"

Jack nodded mutely and then Vernon was gone. Alone in the cold, Jack shivered, unable to shake the feeling that he had just made a deal with the devil. But it was too late to turn back now.

Sighing, he gradually made his way to the street and shuffled home. Once safely inside his bedroom, he collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his pillow.

Fingering his Navy Cross, he decided it was finally time to remove it. Tomorrow he would drop it off on his father's desk where it belonged. And then Jack Thompson would join the SSR.

 **November 1946**

"Thompson? Have you been listening to _anything_ I've been saying?"

Sousa's snappish tone broke Jack out of his drunken trance. He glanced up to find Sousa staring at him with that annoyingly adorable crease between his eyebrows that made him look like a frustrated puppy.

"Honestly Sousa," Jack said, "I _never_ listen to anything you say." He had to fight to keep a smirk off his face when Sousa buried his head in his hands.

"I _said_ that I've been offered a job in Los Angeles," Sousa huffed.

Jack raised his eyebrows, hoping it would give the impression that this was news to him. "Well, if that's what it takes to finally get you out of my hair then good for you."

"The job is the chief of the west coast SSR. You know, the new base they've been building?"

"Of _course_ I know, Sousa, I'm your boss," Jack said. He would never admit that he was the one to convince the boys in DC that Sousa deserved the position. Jack's first instinct had been to offer the job to Carter, seeing as she was the one who should have been rewarded Jack's position in the first place. But the vice president would have blown a fuse if Jack suggested a woman be chief, and that was a hole Jack did not want to dig himself into. The thought had filled him with a surprising amount of guilt, so his next option had been Sousa.

"Well, should I take the offer?" Sousa asked. He sounded frustrated and Jack realized he had probably already asked the question several times.

"Why are you even asking me, Sousa?"

"Because, as you so conveniently pointed out, you are my boss, Thompson," Sousa deadpanned.

Laughing as he sipped his bourbon, Jack said, "Sarcasm is not a good look on you, Sousa. But personally, I think you _should_ take the job. Who knows, maybe once you're on the opposite end the the country, you'll actually be able to get work done without following Carter around all day like you're her neglected puppy."

Sousa's cheeks flushed a deep red and Jack could almost see him swallow his anger. "Thanks for helping me, Jack. You've made me realize that I would do just about anything to get away from you."

"Always happy to help," Jack said, smiling smugly, though he couldn't help the pang of disappointment he felt as Sousa left to go sit with Vega and a few other agents.

He should be used to Sousa's default reaction by now but Jack supposed some part of him would always wish Sousa had Peggy's ability to see through his facade. But it was clear now that Jack was expecting too much of Daniel, just like he had expected too little from Peggy. In some weird way, Jack missed her. She was always able to mediate between him and Sousa and make sure things didn't get too ugly. But lucky for him, Carter was off with her actress friend Angie doing whatever women did when they were alone together.

Sighing, Jack's gaze wandered over toward where a couple of the newer agents sat huddled in a corner. There were three of of them: Smith, Adams, and Johnson. They were all hunched over, their heads drawn together in a way that put Jack off. He remembered Peggy's reaction when he had hired them.

"I don't like them," she had said, frowning as Smith leaned over his desk to sharpen his pencil.

"Is that your women's intuition speaking, Marge? Because other than that, you have no proof against these guys," Jack snarled.

Peggy rolled her eyes but otherwise didn't reward him with a reaction. "I just don't think it was a good decision to hire them, _chief_."

Frowning at the way she mocked his title, Jack said, "You never like any of my decisions, Carter, and I'm beginning to think it's just because they're _my_ decisions."

"Believe what you want, Chief Thompson, but don't say I didn't warn you," she had said, and then proceeded to strut calmly out of his office. They were walking on thin ice around each other and both of them were painfully aware of it. It was only a matter of time before one of them snapped, drowning them both in unfamiliar waters.

Observing the three new agents now, Jack had no choice but to grudgingly admit that Carter was, once again, correct. He slipped behind them, plastering himself to the wall close enough to hear their voices over the crowd.

"I heard they only chose him because he was the old chief's golden boy," Smith was saying.

"C'mon, Smith. The guy has a goddamned Navy Cross. That's gotta be worth something," Adams slurred, clearly a little more than tipsy.

"A fancy necklace doesn't make him a hero. The only reason people get awards like that is for killing a few guys on the battlefield. If you ask me, Captain America should get a damn Navy Cross," Johnson said.

"Well I'm sure he would if Captain America had ever been in the Navy."

They all burst out laughing while Jack stood undetected behind them, his hands curled into fists.

"Hey, Smithy," Johnson slurred, "If you was chief of the SSR, what would be the first thing you'd do?"

"Well, I'd fire Jack Thompson on the spot. And maybe that would impress Carter enough that she would actually fall in line. She never listens to Thompson and _someone_ needs to set her straight."

"You actually think you can straighten out _Carter_?"

"I guarantee I can," Smith said, chuckling hungrily.

The predatory gaze in their eyes made Jack's blood boil. He couldn't care less about any of the shit they said about him. He had heard worse. But talking about _Peggy_ like that? He couldn't imagine what would drive men to talk about a fellow agent in that way. He also knew beyond a doubt that if Peggy were here she would insist she could handle these men by herself, and he would grudgingly agree. He almost laughed out loud at the thought of any man trying to "put her in line".

But the fact remained that Peggy _wasn't_ here. And Jack knew that if Peggy ever heard about this, she would be offended that he even considered defending her honor when she could easily do it herself. The thought was almost strong enough to convince him to just walk away from the whole situation, but _dammit_ , he couldn't have this kind of attitude in his office.

"Now boys, is that any way to talk about a lady?" Jack asked, sliding easily into an empty chair at their table. Their shocked faces were almost enough to make Jack laugh.

"Chief," Smith said dumbly while the other two simply gaped silently.

"Not for long, apparently. I heard you were planning on taking that position, Smith," Jack said, grabbing Johnson's drink and taking a sip. He fought to keep his calm, realizing that it was the main thing unnerving the three of them.

And Smith must have been more drunk than Jack had previously suspected because he actually dared a response. "Well, _someone_ has to deal with Carter."

"And why," Jack asked, "is that?" He smiled bitterly at the three of them, feeding off their confusion. Johnson and Adams both wore matching terrified expressions while Smith stared wide eyed at Jack, like the answer to the question was obvious.

"Well, she actually thinks she's one of the agents, sir," Smith chuckled.

"Last time I checked, she _is_ an agent."

"You let her go on field missions, sir. She's a _woman,_ " Adams piped up.

"Glad you noticed. If you ever used those observational skills on a daily basis, I might take you off desk duty," Jack said dryly, smirking as Adam's face flushed.

"Sir, you _have_ to let me deal with her," Smith insisted, his voice growing louder. Jack hastily glanced around to see if Sousa had caught wind of this little argument, but thankfully Daniel was still chatting contently with Vega.

Jack leaned forward conspiratorially, hoping he seemed genuinely interested in Smith's offer. "Well, that depends. Do you have anything that would scare Peggy Carter?"

"Leave me alone with her for five minutes. I'll get rid of her like _that_ ," Smith said, smacking the table. Jack resisted the urge to jump as the three of them burst into drunken laughter. He joined in, forcing himself to go along and smile.

Finally, he snapped. Standing up and pushing the chair back so it scraped loudly against the floor, Jack announced, "You're fired. All three of you. I should never have recruited any of you in the first place."

They all froze, Smith's face alight with betrayal while the other two simply stared dumbfoundedly into the distance.

"You can't do that," Smith yelled. Jack rolled his eyes, grimacing when he noticed Sousa frowning in his direction. The last thing Jack wanted was for Sousa to meddle with this.

"I'm your boss, of course I can do that," Jack said, grabbing his hat and preparing to leave.

"You've got a soft spot for Carter, or what?" Smith spat.

Jack sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had a headache that had nothing to do with the alcohol and he just wanted to go home. "You jealous, Smith? Because you really should be, seeing that she's ten times the agent you are."

Five years of training was all that saved Jack from a broken nose. Smith's first hit struck empty air as Jack ducked from the blow, grinning from the rush of a fight. Springing back up, the world seemed to slow down, giving Jack the chance to calculate where to do the most damage. He could really choose anywhere to hit the guy, seeing as he was painfully unguarded. Deciding he wanted to cause Smith as much pain physically possible with one punch, Jack aimed for the throat. He thrust the heel of his hand into Smith's neck, causing the man to double over and choke.

"Get out of my sight," Jack spits. He turns away from the three of them only to run into a baffled Sousa.

"What the hell, Jack?" Sousa asks, his eyes wide.

"Move," Jack grunts, pushing Daniel lightly, "I need another drink."

"You just hit Smith," Sousa said. Jack was irritated, but not surprised that Daniel was following him.

"Good to know your eyes work better than your legs, Sousa," Jack snapped, instantly regretting the comment when Sousa's expression hardened.

"Whatever, Thompson," Sousa muttered, grabbing his coat off the back of a chair.

Jack watched him leave with an unsettling mix of regret and relief. Some part of him knew he should lay off of Sousa, but he had already dug himself a hole that was impossible to climb out of. It was like Peggy and Daniel sat on some ledge above Jack's head and instead of climbing up to join them, all Jack could do was nip at their heels in futile attempts to drag them down to his level.

He sighed and stared into his glass, annoyed at how alcohol made him so self aware. What felt like hours later, he picked himself up from the barstool and made his way home, wishing there was something more than a crowded desk and bland office waiting for him in the morning.

 **January 1948**

He couldn't believe he was back in Los Angeles. After the whole Whitney Frost fiasco and getting _shot,_ Jack didn't ever want to set foot in this goddamned city ever again. Yet all it had taken was one call from Peggy and Sousa and he found himself at the airport, rushing to catch a redeye flight.

Now, sitting in a cozy bar with both of them beside him, Peggy showing off her ring, Jack couldn't help but think it was worth it. However, he still failed to wrap his head around the fact that his two best agents were getting _married._ Peggy and Daniel's relationship had been no secret, and there was no way Peggy would refuse, seeing as the two of them were disgustingly perfect for each other. But Jack still couldn't fathom that Sousa had actually worked up the courage to propose to her in the first place.

"So," Jack said, "Can I buy Mrs. Sousa a drink?"

"I'm not changing my name, Jack," Peggy said cooly, and Sousa nodded in agreement.

Jack gaped at them both for a few seconds before saying, "Of course not. You want a whiskey, Carter?"

After all three of them had glasses in their hands, they settled down at a table in the corner. Peggy had ordered some fancy pastry and was stuffing it in her mouth, pausing only to lick her fingers.

"How did you even propose to her, Sousa?" Jack asked, smirking. He was pleased to see that Sousa was also smiling instead of the usual uncomfortable grimace he had around Jack.

"It was quite romantic, actually," Peggy said.

"Yeah, we were chasing this guy named Travis Sage and…"

Jack _wanted_ to hear the story. He wanted to listen to every word Sousa was saying so he could tease him about it later, but at that moment, four men entered the bar and Jack's world shattered.

He vaguely recognized them. Vernon's men from the Arena Club. Vernon, who Jack had all but sacrificed without a second thought. Vernon, who was still missing after the explosion of dark matter. Vernon, who might as well be dead but was still finding new ways to ruin Jack's life.

"Jack? Are you alright?"

Peggy's voice snapped Jack out of his trance. He looked up to find them both gazing worriedly at him.

"I'm fine," he said absently, "I just need some air." It was a poor excuse and they all knew it, but Jack was out of his chair and heading toward the exit before they could protest. There was no doubt in his mind that Vernon's men were after all three of them, and he had to draw them away from Peggy and Sousa. He made sure to make a spectacle of bumping into the door before opening it to draw their attention, and he didn't have to turn around to know that it had worked.

They surrounded him the second he stepped outside, herding him into a dark corner of the street.

"Hey, boys," Jack said, forcing a smile on his face, "Long time no see. Can't say I've missed any of you, though."

"You have some nerve coming back here, Jack," one of them growled. Gazing up at the men with their identical stocky builds and blond hair, Jack had to appreciate Vernon's ability to pick four people who looked exactly alike.

Jack sighed and forced himself to focus. He couldn't tell if any of them hid guns in their coats but the fact that they hadn't made a move to kill yet was reassuring. However, he _was_ outnumbered and ridiculously unarmed.

"If you're going to kill me, get it over with. I doubt you'll succeed, but it'll be fun to see you try."

They all laughed at the same time, as if they were one entity, sending a shiver down Jack's spine. "You SSR chiefs are always so eager to die. It's almost refreshing. But no, we're not here to kill you, Jack. We're here to punish you."

The statement caught Jack off guard and he paused for a second to figure it out. That one moment of hesitation was all they needed and Jack was grossly unprepared for the first blow. The man's fist struck Jack in the chest, causing him to crumple to the ground.

Normally, he would have been able to stay on his feet but the man knew exactly where to target his old bullet wound. It had been almost a year since the assassin's bullet had buried itself half an inch from Jack's heart, and the skin had mostly healed, only leaving behind an ugly scar shaped like a crescent moon. But the area was still a chink in his armor and the blow left Jack breathless and dizzy. He barely had time to wonder how exactly they knew about the shooting when they were on top of him once again.

"Did Vernon shoot me?" Jack gasped.

"Vernon's dead," one of the men said, and Jack couldn't help the relief that flooded him.

Before he could struggle to his feet, one man had pulled him up by the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the wall. Jack's head struck the brick with a crack that echoed through his skull. He felt blood trickle into his eyes, obscuring his vision. With his ears ringing, Jack hastily put up his hands to guard his face. He managed to break out of his captor's hold and went so far as to land a punch on the guy before being restrained again. Two of the men held back his arms, pinning Jack against the wall while the other two took turns to do as much damage as physically possible.

His head spinning, Jack was beginning to regret leaving Peggy and Sousa behind. He clamped his mouth shut, refusing to give the men the satisfaction of hearing him scream. To Jack's surprise, they were anything but sloppy. They knew exactly where to hit him so it would cause the most pain. He was going through a list of defense maneuvers he could use when he felt his ribs crack. He had broken his ribs before, but that had been five years ago in a crumbling, bomb-hit building when a piece of concrete had fallen on top of him. It had been a quick, clean break, sending a shot of white hot agony through his body before he had mercifully passed out. This was different.

The men didn't stop. They kept going until Jack felt like everything inside his body had shattered into tiny pieces. He couldn't remember seeing them take out a knife, but suddenly there was a glint of silver and then a stinging pain across his cheek. His hands groped blindly for anything to hold on to but they only grazed empty air. The knife inflicted what felt like a hundred tiny paper cuts all over his body and Jack finally let himself think the thought he had been repressing this whole time. He had survived the war and an assassin's bullet and now he was going to _die_ at the hands of four men.

He wanted to curl into a ball and let them finish the job. After all, it was only fair. Vernon had been his mentor. His manipulative, selfish, mentor but a sort of guardian nonetheless. And Jack had gladly sent him to his death. He deserved this pathetic fate. And yet, the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Peggy Carter was screaming at him to _get up_ and _fight_.

His body protesting at every motion, Jack used the last of his strength to pull himself to his feet and raise his arms to guard his face. Of course, none of that mattered anymore because all four of the men had stepped away from Jack and one was pointing a small, silver pistol at him.

Everything that occurred after that happened too fast for Jack's bruised brain to comprehend. A shot rang out, and he braced himself for the impact that never actually came. Instead, the man holding the gun crumpled to the floor, blood blooming across his kneecap. The man screamed in pain as the other three jumped in shock.

"I suggest you all leave before the next three bullets finds themselves between your eyes," said a dangerously calm voice.

Through his blurry vision, Jack could barely make out the forms of Carter and Sousa standing protectively between him and the other four. Peggy's eyes held a fire that was more terrifying than the smoking gun in her left hand. Sousa held a gun of his own and wore an identical expression to Peggy. It caught Jack off guard to see Sousa so deeply infuriated. A year ago, Jack wasn't even sure if Sousa would have helped him in a situation like this.

He didn't even notice that the men had left until Peggy and Sousa were both hovering worriedly over him. He smiled crookedly up at them and then slowly slid down the wall until he was nothing more than a bruised heap on the floor.

"Where are you hurt, Jack?" Peggy asked, getting down to business.

"I'm fine," Jack said, spitting the blood pooling in his mouth onto the concrete.

"Like hell you are," Sousa muttered. "You look like crap."

"Thanks, Sousa. It's nice to know you care," Jack mumbled. His head was throbbing and his eyes felt heavy. He began closing them only to have Peggy slap him across the face.

"Stay awake," she ordered. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Sixteen," Jack deadpanned, still bitter from the slap. At Peggy's warning look he sighed and said, "Four."

"You have a concussion," Peggy diagnosed.

"What, are you a nurse, Marge?"

"She was only holding up two fingers, Thompson," Sousa said, rolling his eyes.

Jack searched for a response to that troubling statement but was saved the struggle when Peggy began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Didn't know you liked me like that, Carter," Jack said, smirking. "Won't this make Sousa a little uncomfortable?"

"Oh, shut it," Peggy snapped. Without warning, she poked Jack's ribs, causing him to hiss in pain. "Do these feel broken?"

"Yeah," he choked out.

"Jesus, Thompson, who were those guys?" Sousa asked.

"Some of Vernon's men."

"Vernon Masters? He's alive?" Peggy said, frowning.

"I don't know," Jack admitted, "They said he was dead, but they knew exactly where I'd been shot a year ago."

"Do you think one of them was the assassin?" Sousa asked, his face scrunched up in concentration.

"Maybe," Jack said. He hadn't really had the time to see who had shot him. All he knew was the person was male and had been after some of Vernon's old files.

"All right, we'll look into that later. For now, let's get you to a hospital, Jack," Peggy said. At the word _hospital_ , Jack's world became crystal clear.

"I don't need a hospital, I'll be fine on my own," he said. He knew it was ridiculous, but by now, denying the help of others was some kind of twisted reflex.

"Wow, you must have hit your head harder than we thought," Sousa said, burying his face in his hands.

"Well, if you're going to insist you're fine, Jack," Peggy said, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "Why don't you stand up?"

"Yeah," Sousa added, "It's a warm night. We can all _walk_ home."

"I hate you both," Jack grumbled.

"We're trying to help you!" Peggy said, throwing her hands up into the air. From his place on the floor, Jack thought she looked like an irritated goddess.

"Yeah, and _that's_ what I don't understand," Jack said, his voice rising. "Why the hell would you two of all people decide that I'm worth saving? For the last two years, I've treated you both like shit. Hell, I even told _you_ about Okinawa and-" His voice cut off like someone had ripped his tongue out of his mouth.

Peggy somehow looked shocked and expectant at the same time, her eyebrows raised so high they disappeared into her hair. Sousa mainly looked confused and Jack was suddenly hit by the fact that Sousa _didn't know_. He had never told Sousa about Okinawa, and the fact that Sousa still had no idea what had happened meant that Peggy hadn't told him. The two of them were about to get married and Peggy still hadn't told her future husband Jack's secret.

"What about Okinawa?" Sousa asked, looked from Jack to Peggy curiously.

Looking Jack in the eyes, Peggy said, "It's not my secret to tell." At this point, Jack almost hoped that Peggy would be the one to tell Sousa because if not, then Jack would have to tell him himself.

"Jack," Peggy said softly and he turned to face her. "It's true that you've been a complete arse in the past."

"You still kind of are," Sousa muttered and Peggy lightly punched his shoulder.

"But all that matters is that you're a different person now. You've changed. And because we can't change the past, that's all any of us can ever hope for. You know what you've done wrong and now you're trying to make up for it. You're trying to convince the vice president to keep the SSR up and running instead of helping to tear it down. Last year you helped Ana and Mr. Jarvis train their dog. You came back to a city you despise just because we called you here. And that's because you, Jack Thompson, are a good man. If you weren't, Daniel and I would have been long gone by now."

Jack stared up at the both of them, blinking sluggishly. He shivered and pulled his coat tightly around himself, feeling exposed (in all senses of the word). He wanted nothing more than to believe Peggy, but at the same time he was terrified that she was correct. Over the years, he had come to terms with the version of himself that was always burying the white flag. It never even occurred to him that he could change. But according to Peggy and Daniel, he already had.

"For the record, the SSR is basically a lost cause. I wouldn't be surprised if we're all out of a job by the end of next month," Jack said flatly.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Sousa said slyly, causing Jack to frown at him. "Peggy's got something up her sleeve. She won't tell me any details but I think it has something to do with a shield."

Jack raised his eyebrows at Peggy as she smiled knowingly.

"I'll let you know once I'm certain it's even doable," she said mysteriously.

There's a soft silence and despite his injuries, Jack felt warm and oddly comfortable. It was a good while before he realized how late it was and that they should all head home.

"Well, can you guys help me up instead of just standing there like a bunch of 'holier than thou' statues?" Jack said, smiling as Sousa shook his head and Peggy rolled her eyes.

The both grabbed one of his arms, and carefully lifted him up. The pain had mainly died down to just a hollow ache and some part of Jack knew that meant he was closer than ever to passing out. But with one hand draped around Peggy's shoulders and the other holding onto Sousa's arm, Jack finally felt ready for everything.


End file.
